The One Thing He Didn't Know
by Lightnin Spark
Summary: Did Sherlock know for sure that she was dead? He wouldn't admit the true answer, or dare to hope she was alive. Finding the anwer may be the only way to put his mind at ease. Post SH2. CONTINUED!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

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><p>Sherlock Holmes wouldn't admit it. His face wouldn't reveal it, nor would his actions. He knew that there was not the slightest of change on his readable features that would allow anyone to see. However the fact refused to waver as it kept immerging in his thoughts, his dreams, and his nightmares. It ate away at his core, as a crow slowly eats from a corpse, oh so painstakingly slow.<p>

He had lost trace of where his thoughts were coming from; if they were logical, commingled with emotion, or some combination of the two. On one hand, Moriarty was very capable of lying. In fact, it amused him quite a lot. He also enjoyed torture, stabbing one with a fish hook proved so with no question. Perhaps he had taken Irene from him to be used later, or to plague with assortments of terrors in revenge for making some of his missions go askew. No corpse was seen, which normally translated to his logical mind that there was no evidence proving or disproving the fact. Besides, cold, unblinking eyes would give himself a far greater reaction, if that was all Moriarty was trying to get.

The blood on the handkerchief was real, and so was the Parisian perfume. Killing Irene could prove quite useful to The Professor, for it would be a potential double-agent or spy out of his way. She knew too much, her affections towards Holmes made her incapable of preforming tasks that only she could conjure. Therefore, there wasn't a reason _not _to finish her off.

Hoping, though, was his greatest fear. If the fact that Irene was dead, probablydead, mostly likely passed on, perhaps alive—if it tore at him so much and he let himself actually believe she still had breath within her lungs…

Then the possibilities haunted him too. What if she was living, even as he was staring blankly at the newspaper he held in front of him? Waiting, waiting for someone to find her, and then never appearing. _The _woman could be anywhere, at the mercy of Moriarty's men, locked away without food or drink, somewhere, relying on him; He that was sitting, contemplating her existence. He, who refused to believe she was alive, though knew that there was a possibility. He who knew that she could be out there, but wasn't brave enough to leave his flat to search for her. And she could be relying on him.

_Where would I search? _Though he knew he was fully capable of tracking down Moran and finding out from him. Or, though it would be more difficult, he could easily go and look for clues since he wasn't preoccupied at the moment.

No case seemed to grab his attention, nothing. They were all the same: loss, death, crime which would lead to punishment. None of this bothered him, gruesome bodies he would inspect in a case, their crying families... Watson would call him heartless, which wasn't accurate at all. He didn't express his feelings as one normally would, only internally. The idea eternal loss of someone never struck him so hard, though, until now. She was was she?

_Shut up._

Standing up abruptly, sending the chair to the ground. He threw the newspaper aside. What interest he had in it to start with escaped him. When it flittered in the air instead of hitting the floor with the loud noise he had hoped for, he plucked it from where it hung. Chest heaving slightly, he crumpled it within his calloused hands and tossed it into the fire keeping the biting knife of winter away. The way the flames enveloped and then devoured the paper was satisfying.

The game was over, Watson was safe, he was more or less alive as well, but the scars didn't heal. His shoulder always pained him and slowed him down. He wouldn't be able to fight like he did, nor go on just as he had before. Irene left the same mark.

"_Holmes!_" Mrs. Hudson hollered from outside the door.

Each time she banged on the door when he didn't respond was like a hammer fall to the secluded world of his mind. At first only cracks appeared, until piece by piece each shard fell and cracked. He was pulled back to what was real, reality was coming into focus. His annoyance with his landlady was steadily growing.

And then he saw the photograph, Irene's sepia eyes staring back at him in her smug expression. The detective knew, however, those orbs that would stare at him with such radiance, were icy blue. He didn't remember putting the portrait in its proper position though. The last time, he believed, was when _the _woman herself placed it there.

He took a step towards it with the intention of putting it down. Perhaps he shouldn't touch it, for then she wouldn't be the last person to put her fingerprints on the frame. But he couldn't have it looking at him anymore could he? It was irrational to waste his time on her any longer. She was gone, and mourning for ages would help nothing. She wouldn't want him to.

Something inside of him stirred. His hand froze, hovering above the photograph of Irene Adler, Ms. Adler, _the woman_.

Would he ever rest until he had solid proof of the question he dared not search the answer? It was also quite obvious that pushing the thought away was futile, for it had failed so many times. Putting down her portrait did nothing. Facts proved things such as revealing that Lord Blackwood to be nothing more than a man with many a helpful tool at his disposal. Facts would give him the answer, like they had so many times before.

His shoulder feeling slightly better than earlier that day, he sighed, and left the picture as it was.

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><p><strong>I'm trying to restrict my habbit of starting stories while I'm already working on other projects, but I couldn't help it. This has turned into a continuation of this previous one-shot. Reviews are motivation to update quicker *wink, wink*<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**I finally got aroud to continuing this! Yay!**

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><p>Irene's eyes opened as soon as she was aware that she was alive. The shock that she was not, in fact, dead washed over her and numbed her thoughts slightly. Either that, she reasoned, or the dizzying feeling that she quickly recognized as fever.<p>

As the world around her came into more focus, she noted the plain surroundings. The medium sized room was painted a tan shade of beige and complimented with maroon curtains accented with gold. The room was filled with little furniture; only the bed she was laid upon, a wooden side table, a cushioned bench under a window, and finally a large desk with a familiar looking man sitting behind it.

_Moriarty…_ As soon as her mind comprehended the sight, Irene was suddenly overtaken with a fit of violent coughing. She felt as if her lungs were on fire, as she felt warm liquid slide down the corner of her mouth.

The plan wasn't supposed to end up like this. The antidote she slipped into her mouth seemed to have saved her from death, but Moriarty was intended to believe her dead. Marcus Retherford, her cabby, was left instructions to find her and take her back to the Grande.

"How lovely to see you awake, Ms. Alder," The Professor smiled slightly, revealing his crocked teeth. "I was getting quite worried that you were weak, therefore unable to survive the symptoms of the poison. Don't worry though, you should recover soon enough."

Irene managed to push herself up a bit, just enough to quickly pull a pillow closer to support her neck. She attempted several times to get a noise to come from her throat. The first tries only resulted in hoarse croaks, but soon she was able to get out, "I-I don't… underst-stand."

"What fool do you take me to be?" The man's expression revealed how much he knew that he had the upper hand. Moriarty leaned closer from his desk, "Cabbies tend to have a lot of interesting things to say when you put them at gun point or their families… I'm sure you knew that. The herbs you took as you made your way to the exit were quite a brilliant use of middle-eastern healing. Where did you learn it from?" His eyes gleamed darkly, revealing that he already knew the answer.

"He didn't teach me, if that was what you're guessing. I l-learned it upon my travels."

The Professor reclined back into the arm chair. "You had reasons to come extremely prepared when meeting with me I see. Who could blame you, though?"

As a moment of silence drew out, she watched him with slight uncertainty. "Why am I still alive?"

"Why would I want to give away all the fun just yet?" Moriarty responded quietly.

Irene fought off another round of coughing.

He got up from the arm chair smoothly, opening an unseen drawer and pulling out a copy of a newspaper. With slow steps he made his way over towards her. "Do you know what happens when an object find itself caught between two equally powerful opposing forces?"

"No—"

"Come, come now, Ms. Adler!" Moriarty shook his head mockingly, "We both know that you're a smart woman. Answering a question is quite a possible task for one in your state. Go on."

Irene attempted to sit up to make herself more level, and therefore less like a frightened young girl. Her muscles moved slow and painfully, and her head seemed somewhat clouded, so she found this endeavor to be undoable. Settling on this fact, she took a deep breath and spoke knowing quite well what the metaphor meant, "I suppose it would be the deciding factor, the object in the middle that is. It could possibly cause the unleashing of both forces, or become the downfall to one."

"Exactly," He clasped his hands together, pausing before the foot of the bed. "How about an illustration to your metaphor?"

He tossed the newspaper onto the bedside table, and turned back to his desk. Irene saw him open another drawer and pluck several small objects out, then remove a small scale from under the table. He returned, and set the things down. On both cups at the end of the scale he placed two king pieces of a chess game, and in the center of both, he set a queen. The piece was neither white nor black as the kings, but made out of carved glass as if from another chess set.

Moriarty's hand hung above the queen as he stared Irene in the eye, "Without any mathematics or measuring, one cannot stand precisely in the middle. Besides getting involved with such dangerous forces could be quite… _deadly_."

With a tiny nudge of his pinky finger, the game piece slid slightly towards the black king. The scale creaked slightly as it tipped the slightest bit. The Professor looked from the queen to Irene, "Now I couldn't allow one king to have a slight advantage, could I?" His smirk widened, and he flicked the queen off the scale.

The glass fell and hit the floor, shattering into several tiny shards.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, "Just something to think about while you recover… Well I won't bother you for long now. You see, whilst your body was fighting the concoction of tuberculosis you missed quite a bit of—well I'll leave you to read in some peace and quiet. I'll get someone to bring you some jasmine tea."

"I'll kindly refuse the tea… Though some food would be appreciated," Irene lifted her chin slightly.

He got up, leaving the scale and chess pieces where they were. As he moved to the door, he produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it. "Good evening—or as they say in Reichenbach—bon soir."

As the door clicked shut, then clicked again as it locked, Irene grabbed the newspaper with quivering hand. It didn't take her long to see the article she was intended to read:

_Detective Sherlock Holmes Dies at Reichenbach Falls_


	3. Chapter 3

**First, let me apologize for keeping everyone waiting for so long. I can't tell you how busy I've been, because that would be really boring. But I'll do my best to update more regularly, alright?**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Irene laid absolutely awake, eyes fixed upon the ceiling. The newspaper was left sprawled out on the floor besides the bed; face down so the only articles in view were adds requesting people for services and the like. What did the paper matter though? What did the reporters know about him? Where was the proof that they were right?<p>

They knew nothing of course. After all, they described him as, "The most brilliant detective London has ever seen," and "A hero to us all," and "The most ingenious man to ever help the Yard."

Perhaps these were true to them, she rationalized, but they failed to mention the complete truth. Say, how he was truly just a child on an emotional level, sometimes almost alien to having feelings at all. The way he would go to extreme lengths to prove he was superior, to have the last word. How he was an addict; to morphine once in a while, to the fight, to adventure with his loyal Watson, to me. She bet the reporter didn't know his tendency to be ultimately bored and poison, explode or shoot things (not when she was around of course, but the evidence was oh to clear). They didn't have a clue to that he didn't mean to be a hero at all. He simply was in the position to which he would become one whether or not he chose. But it was clear that most people disregarded that and thought him to be one anyways. Even Irene did sometimes.

With their information regarding Moriarty's status of being dead, it was quite possible they were wrong about Holmes' as well. It hardly helped, however, that the only subject her captor was very inclined to discuss was how he had witnessed the detective's head bash against a rock during the fateful fall. But where would he benefit from telling her the truth?

In a short summary, _the _woman felt absolutely powerless, and she loathed it to its core. Not only did it infuriate her that she was refused from any peace of proven information, freedom from the tiny, plain room, or any antidote to help assist her in her recovery, but she was left to self-pity and her own thoughts. She was left to pray for someone to find her, and that was weakening. Even wishing that her detective was alive made her look like another sniveling woman. In her head, she thought herself to be not so different from one anyhow. The disease, while only replicated, had affected her whole body. If she simply lost the will to fight it off one day, it was obvious she would die.

Truthfully, Irene was getting much better than previously when Moriarty paid her his first visit. She could now sit up to lean on the head board and eat on her own—not to say that it was still difficult. Drinking, of course, she could too; though The Professor thought it quite amusing to serve her the same tea she drank in the restaurant.

Things seemed to go normally for what she guessed was a week. Someone would come bring her breakfast of toast and warm tea in the morning, and a couple hours later, Moriarty would arrive with lunch. At night time a maid would come check on her healing process, lower the lights and leave her with dinner before leaving.

Upon this morning however, the same man with the moustache had brought her up a tray of breakfast as usual. Though three hours later, when The Professor typically came, there was no one to be entering her room.

Irene propped herself up with another pillow to put her head against the wall. She didn't hear anyone making their way up and down the hallway, so she assumed perhaps he had nothing for her that day and went back to trying to sleep. This, of course, was only a half-hearted attempt for there was truly nothing else to be done in such boring surroundings, limited to bed. Though, physically still exhausted, she allowed herself to drift off into the dark corners of her mind.

The woman opened her eyes to the sound of the door opening, and commanded her body to quickly start up again. For it wasn't Moriarty standing at the door this time, it was another; a gruff appearing man with short brown hair and a thick moustache and beard. While he was not covered in dirt, it was quite obvious he used to, with weathered skin and an expression that looked like a grimace. She quickly recognized him from being there at the restaurant, a sharp shooter The Professor had gotten a hold of somehow. However it was not those things that caught her attention most, but the hungry stare in his eyes that gazed over her.

"Colonel Moran, correct?" Irene asked, managing to sit herself up again. She did her best to appear stronger than she felt at the moment, which was very tired and pained with a burning sensation in her chest.

He gave a very slight nod, grimace falling into a bit more of an eerie smile. "Yes, Miss Adler. I s'ppose ye don't know why 'm 'ere, 'ey?" He spoke with a strong cockney accent, raising his heavy eyebrows.

In response, she simply shook her head side to side, gripping the white sheets beneath her hands. Her hand slipped up the sleeve of her dress, only to find that her revolver and knife were taken. The same result was found on the other.

"See, The Professor 'ad other business he needed to attend to," He took a step forwards to rest his hands upon the back of an arm chair, "Don' worry though, 'e made sure 'e 'ad someone to watch ya. An' that someone's me."

It was quite obvious to her now of what exactly he meant. Moriarty had left her as a present to his faithful servant, and a present she was to become. "I believe his only duty, Colonel, was to bring me lunch. And I'm quite hungry now, it's quite late actually," She spoke calmly, even as he took another step forwards.

"I think we can wait a li'le for some food. After all, miss, I'm a bi' hungry for something else…"

"Not today, I think—nor any day, Colonel." Irene pushed the rest of the covers from her legs and quickly swung them over the side of the bed. Not giving a thought to the waves of darkness that hit her, she immediately pushed herself back up onto her feet. The world around her tilted violently, and her vision began to blur heavily. It wasn't long before she felt the mattress press into her back as gravity protested.

He gave a chuckle, advancing further, "Nah, not today. Ye ain't well enough says the boss. Quite easy to see that as well."

Relief quickly flooded her as she put a hand to her pounding head, closing her eyes tightly in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

"Won't keep ye waitin' for too long, Miss Adler, promise. In the meantime', try ye best to recover."

The door closed in several seconds, and the world went black.

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><p><strong>Next chapter will have Sherlock for everyone, don't worry. Hope you liked it!<strong>

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed! It makes me really happy.**

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